


Neighbors

by garamonder



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Pre-Epilogue Mockingjay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-24
Updated: 2014-12-24
Packaged: 2018-03-03 04:24:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,348
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2837855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/garamonder/pseuds/garamonder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-MJ, pre-epilogue. The three Victors of District 12 live in seclusion until familiar faces move into one of the Village's unoccupied houses.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Neighbors

The voice over the phone is tinny. "Is that okay?" it asks.

"Yes," I say, although I'm not sure. "Did you call Peeta about it?"

Pause. "We thought we'd clear it with you first."

I'm a little irritated. "No, I thought I'd keep them all to myself. I was going to use one as a game cellar. Maybe another for target practice."

"It's only one family." The voice bulls over the sarcasm.

"They'll have to watch out for Haymitch's geese," I warn. I can almost hear the voice grimace. After some more mincing comments we end the conversation, and I hang up the phone with trepidation.

"What was that?" asks Greasy Sae as she doles out some stew in my bowl and her granddaughter's. The smell is wonderful. I've grown up with her stews but I'd still take them over any Capitol delicacy, anytime.

Peeta swoops in bearing a tray laden with flaky bread. He bakes when he's not painting and he paints when he's not baking. When he's not doing either of those he's attacking the weeds threatening the primroses in my garden. Next to my lethargy, his activity seems almost feverish.

"Plutarch called." I pick up a spoon and swirl it in the stew, waiting until Peeta deposits a chunk of bread so I can dunk it. "There's a family they want to know if they can house in the Victors' Village."

"What, do they think we want them to ourselves?" asks Peeta, serving up Sae and her granddaughter. He's recovered well from this morning.

"I said I'd been planning to use one for a meat locker," I say lightly. Peeta and Sae smile. So does Lora, at something none of us can see.

Reconstruction has begun for real in District 12. At first only a few straggled back, people from here who would be lost wherever they ended up. Then more started arriving, refugees from other districts that have begun making a new town from the bricks and ashes of the old one. I was surprised; I thought nobody would see any potential in these ruins.

But we have remained isolated in our little village. Victors still hold a sacred place in the eyes of their districts—not as the heroes they once were, but as relics and reminders. Walking testimonies. As such we retain everything we had before, as much as is left to us.

Truthfully, I'm surprised Plutarch found anybody willing to move into the Village with us. The family would have to know their neighbors were the girl who'd executed one president at another's execution, presumably in a fit of grief-stricken insanity; a boy who battles himself daily for the right to his mind; a drunken soul who only mentors geese now, and said drunken soul's cantankerous geese that could toddle with flared wings around any corner at you.

"When are they coming?" Peeta sits and digs in to the bowl that he's offered, mopping it up with his bread. Lora coos at him and he pats her hand.

"Next few days." With a train from District 11, said Plutarch. "I don't know exactly." Heavensbee probably told me, but the date has slipped from my mind already.

Peeta looks thoughtful and it occurs to me that the idea of neighbors does not give him the same kind of pause that it does me. That surprises me, although I don't know why. He's always made friends easily. Maybe he feels safer around strangers, people who can't accidentally set off any kind of hair trigger in his memories.

Sae patters around the house with the abrasiveness she always feigns to mask her concern. When she's satisfied that everybody's good and stable, she takes Lora gently by the arm and they walk down the village path together. Peeta waves goodbye to Lora like he always does, and she responds sweetly like she always does.

"This might not be a good idea," I mutter in the kitchen, elbow deep in soapy water. Peeta offers to help but I flick water at him and he retreats.

"We shouldn't isolate ourselves," Peeta says reasonably. I know he's really talking about me and Haymitch, because Peeta doesn't isolate himself unless he feels an episode coming on. "It's healthy to interact with people." He goes on a bit about something he's talked about with Dr Aurelius. I halfway pay attention. Sometimes Peeta's logic is reassuring and sometimes it distresses me because I know it can be a tide with no schedule and I hate to think of the times when reason deserts him to the wilds.

Like it did this morning. He left quickly and I didn't see him again until shortly after Greasy Sae arrived.

I "mm-hmm" and "uh-huh" as he talks. Soon the dishes are clean and I wipe my wrinkled hands on a clean towel.

He takes the dishes and stacks them in their places, keeping the tray he'd brought the bread on. Then he leaves for his own house, emptier than mine for the souls that have departed it.

I don't want neighbors. Of all the conveniences that the Village offers, it's the solitude that I prize most. I like when it's me and Peeta and Haymitch, which in a way is the way it's been ever since the first Games. A strange family would breach the peace.

When I bring it up with our old mentor, he shrugs noncommittally. "Sweetheart, sometimes I don't remember I have neighbors already."

"I know," I say, thinking of the times he forgets to latch the goose pen.

Whatever my feelings are, the "next few days" pass regardless and one morning Peeta shows up at my house cradling a large basket. Inside, wrapped carefully, are several loaves of bread of varying size and taste. He tells me it's a welcome basket and despite that it's exactly the sort of thing he'd do I'm surprised anyway, mainly because the gesture would never have occurred to me.

"I'm going to the train station to meet them," he says. "Do you want to come with?"

I shake my head, and he doesn't press the issue. I go out, though, to make sure that Haymitch's geese are minding their perimeters and won't make for a nasty welcoming committee. It would be all we needed, for ornery birds to attack a family already certainly unsure about moving next to us.

I'm just ushering one into a pen—Haymitch is passed out and of no help whatsoever, which is best as making no impression on new neighbors at all is better than any he'd make halfway conscious—when I see movement around one of the houses directly across from mine. I think about sneaking into my home and hiding, but that won't work for long.

So with resignation I dodge a goose and traipse around the corner. A truck has pulled up to the home, laden with boxes. It's still weird to see cars being driven by people other than Peacekeepers. Peeta is helping to unload the truck. His basket is nowhere to be seen; it's already been whisked away inside the home.

Some of the family is outside working but I avoid looking at them, feeling self-conscious. I'm considering escaping into Haymitch's home to avoid detection when Peeta trots across the way with his odd gait. His expression is not as warm as I expected and he does not even scold me for having my hand on the doorknob to Haymitch's house.

"Katniss," he says, and falters. He sneaks a look over his shoulder. "Ah..."

"What?" This time I look over him to the family, but they have disappeared around the truck and into the home. For a moment at least, the yard is clear.

He smiles, and it's genuine, but the smile fades, and the worry is genuine too. He takes my arm and begins drawing me back towards my home. I ask him what is wrong but my words glance off him. Danger bells go off instinctively but his grip is reassuring and nothing seems to be on fire.

"Everything's fine," he says quickly in response to my expression. "But you shouldn't be blindsided. This might—"

"Peeta!" chirps a voice. I look around and right over the head of a little thing that darts to Peeta's side. It's a small girl, maybe six years old, and already she's looking at him with the expectant affection kids seem to get instantly around him. "Mama found some jam for the bread. Do you want some?"

Then she turns and sees me and I'm stunned by the almond eyes and lovely dark skin, and for a moment where I can't breathe it's almost as though I'm looking right at Rue again. The same bright eyes and intent expression and birdlike tilt. She stares back and I vividly remember seeing her on the platform, with four siblings pressed together as though they believed it could shut out the horrors.

Peeta's voice cuts through somehow. "Katniss, this is Gracy."

"Hi," I say hoarsely. It's all I can manage.

"I'll be right there, Gracy," he tells her quietly, and she wordlessly leaves, looking boldly over her shoulder at me as she goes.

I turn to him and my lips move, searching for something to say. He gives me a sad smile. "I had no idea until they stepped off the train," he promises. "Mr. Garlander has a position with the new agriculture board."

I say in a small voice, "oh."

Peeta wets his lip and glances behind me. "Katniss...why don't you go inside, and I'll be along soon."

Part of me vaguely wonders if it would be rude of me not to go with him. Everything that isn't that part is threatening to overwhelm me, so I go inside my house without saying anything, sit down on the sofa, and wait for the tears to come. They don't.

Time passes.

I flick on the television. It's rarely ever on; I unplug it but Sae often puts the cord back in. Television now is a world different than before the war. Plutarch made good on his threat to host a singing show, and I made good on my noncommittal response to maybe appearing on it by remaining steadfastly noncommittal. As a distraction, though, the programming—we have _channels_ , now—is sufficient.

There's a knock at the door. Two raps. I know it's Peeta; he still knocks when he comes in by the way of the front door (though never the kitchen entrance), and it's always two sure raps wherever he is, like he's confident that whatever door he knocks on will be opened to him. The mindless certainty of the well-liked.

Peeta lets himself inside.

"You should talk to them," he says, walking over and sitting heavily beside me on the couch. "They're really nice."

For a moment we both stare at the screen. A woman from District 4 is going through the steps of frying a fish with helpful commentary.

"Her dad got a job here?" I ask after a while.

"Yeah. Since part of the reconstruction process is making the districts more independent, he's taking a position monitoring agriculture in the area. We need somebody with his knowledge."

"How exactly is making the districts independent supposed to bring everybody together?" I wonder. Wondering about some tangential topic is easier than addressing the one in front of me. "Everybody was independent before."

Peeta leans back. "No, we were isolated. There's a difference. Each district was just a...cog, before. It actually made us more reliant on each other. They needed us to get them coal like we needed their grain and cloth or whatever." He yawns. "Haymitch says that was the most effective way the Capitol had of suppressing rebellion, by making sure everybody's survival depended upon all the other districts behaving. Roa said something similar just now."

"Roa. That's her father?" I ask.

"That's Rue's father, yes," says Peeta.

It's the first time Rue's name has been said aloud between us.

Peeta goes on. "You'll like him. All of them. Mrs Garlander says she might help rebuild the school."

"There's no more children for a school," I murmur.

The baker's boy frowns at me. "There's some. Hers, too. And there will be more."

I say nothing.

Peeta sighs. "Katniss," he starts, then he gets that pause where he's figuring out how to say something delicate. "Things will keep on going no matter how bad we dig our heels in."

We watch the screen a little while longer. Now somebody from District 3 is demonstrating how to wire a simple light. Even District 2 has appeared on television a couple of times before, but I'm not aware of anybody from District 12 doing it.

"Haymitch ought to do a special on how not to raise geese properly," I say.

Peeta laughs. "I think anybody could get the hang of that without his help." Rising, he walks toward the door. As he opens it he says to me, "Talk to them. It might make you feel better. And you can't avoid them."

"Where are you going?" I ask, suddenly worried. I can't go over there without him.

"To check on Haymitch's liver. I'll see you at dinner." With that, he steps outside.

Again, I'm alone. Sick of the television's company, I switch it off and nap on the couch, in no rush to follow Peeta's advice.

His advice comes knocking at my door instead. Four raps, soft and light. Not his. I raise up and approach the door, opening it to see another one of the Garlander children.

This one, a boy of eleven, nearly twelve maybe, has a jar of jam and he holds it out for me to take. "It's apple jam," he says.

"Thank you," I tell him, taking it and rolling the jar between my palms, feeling awkward. "I'm Katniss." The introduction is unneccesary but it seems polite to say.

"I'm Fen," he says, and we shake hands. He's taller than Rue was. "Do you want to come for dinner? It's almost ready."

I see that more of the day has gone by than I realized. I'm tempted to decline, to say that I was expecting Peeta, until I realize that they've likely already invited him and he was referring to that when he said he'd see me at dinner. Devious brat.

"Sounds nice," I say, and after setting the jar on a table I close the door behind us.

When we get to his house, I see a girl of ten or so standing in the yard with her hands on her hips, surveying the grass.

"I think some roses," she says when she turns around, then she sees me. "Oh."

It's the sister who had stared at me so reproachfully from the platform in District 11, and shamed me into my outburst then.

"This is Maren. Maren, Katniss," introduces Fen.

She shakes my hand with the same boldness as her brother. All of the Garlander children share a bright, inquisitive face, and she studies me. "I'm planting flowers," she says by way of explanation of her comment before. "Snapdragons are my favorite but everyone likes roses. Isn't katniss a kind of plant?"

"A tuber," I respond. It sounds a lot less impressive. They're not any more decorational than I am. "I've never seen a snapdragon."

Maren raises a little bag and shakes it. It makes a minute rattling sound. "I have seeds for both. I'll put them in front. And when the sunflowers out back are ready we can eat the seeds."

"You should talk to Peeta," I say. As usual, I turn to him even when he's not there. "He likes to garden too."

Tilting her head, Maren lowers the bag. "Mm-hm. He said he plants those primroses around your house." Her look is knowing. "They're pretty."

Before a lump has the chance to form in my throat, the girl takes my hand by the wrist and leads me into the house. Its layout is different from mine but is similarly luxurious. "Isn't this big?" she asks, clearly still amazed by its size. "All to ourselves."

All seven of them. And my big old house all to _my_ self, alone. I grow uneasy. Uneasier.

"Mama," calls Maren as she shows me into the kitchen, "Katniss is here."

I'm close to overwhelmed by the faces staring back at me, ones I'd seen only once in life and repeatedly in my dreams. "Hi," I say weakly. I'm not sure if they hear it.

The man by the kitchen door who could only be Roa begins to move, but it's his wife, a handsome and pleasant-faced woman, who gets to me first. "Hello, Katniss," she says, more warmly than I ever feel I could deserve. She even hugs me. "My name is Evanda. I'm glad to meet you properly."

Yes, touring the Districts and flaunting your survival at the other tributes' families does not make for a decent first introduction. "Me too."

Evanda sweeps her hand around the room. "That's my husband Roa," she motions to the man who comes up and takes my hand, "Gracy," she indicates the girl who had come up to Peeta earlier, "Winnow, and Emmer." The last two are a four-year old girl and a toddler boy, respectively.

Perhaps noticing my discomfort, Roa smiles and waves me to a chair. "Peeta will be along soon," he says.

I'm glad they're all busy, getting dinner ready or putting things away, because I'm feeling less and less certain that I can do this. Seeing them, remembering Rue, reopens a lot of flood gates I'd only just managed to close. I'm close to tears so I stare at the table.

Blessedly, Peeta isn't away long. He bumps the kitchen door open with his hip like he's familiar with the home already and sets a tray of cheese rolls on top of the table. Several of the children run over to admire them, and Evanda reminds them meaningfully that they're not to take any before dinner. Then she looks the rolls over and praises them with the sure eye of a good cook.

Peeta preens and takes the chair next to me after Evanda shoos him away from helping with the preparations. Catching his eye, I glare at him half-heartedly and he discreetly puts a hand over mine. I feel a little better.

"Haymitch alive?" I ask, fishing for something to talk about.

"Uh-huh. He's not as drunk as he'd like to be now because he's got to get more liquor, but he's not sober enough to find Ripper." Peeta drums his fingers. "The hateful limbo."

"The geese?"

"Also alive." Peeta quirks a smile at me. "I don't think they antagonize me as much as they do you."

"Nobody does." We laugh quietly.

Dinner goes nicely, better than I expected. Every minute goes by a little easier than the one before it, aided by Peeta taking the reins of the conversation. I learn that Roa Garlander will oversee the import of grain as well as introducing more local agriculture, and that Evanda loves the written word.

"I hope to encourage an appreciation for language," she says, spooning some vegetables onto my plate. I try not to be affected by how amazed the children are at their sudden abundance of food, and how carefully they go about eating so as not to waste a bit. "Most books were banned in the districts but many are getting unearthed in old, sealed archives. Even some from centuries ago."

"I'd be curious to see that," says Peeta of the healthy appreciation for language already.

"There's one I have my hands on now. _Fahrenheit 451_. It's fascinating. I'll lend it to you."

Peeta thanks her and takes another cheese roll.

We sit and talk for a long time, even after dinner is done and the plates are cleared. Eventually I start to add more to the conversation but I know that I'm only holding off the tide of emotion; I haven't beaten it back completely. Inch by inch, it starts to flood my defenses again. It's just too surreal, sitting here and speaking with them, and nobody has brought up Rue, the girl who has brought us all here.

Darkness has enveloped the sky when the kids head to bed for their first night in this home. Evanda comes back down after she's certain they're all washed and tucked in.

We fall into a silence, each waiting on the other to address the obvious. The open kitchen door lets in the night sounds.

Finally Roa takes a sip of coffee, which he professes to love, laughing at my dubious face. "Thank you for your offer, of the winnings," he says. "Our district rebelled just after you left, so we didn't really see much of it, but it was very generous of you."

Peeta looks at him, mystified. "What are you talking about?"

Roa and Evanda share a glance. "The gift you offered," says Evanda slowly. "One month of yours and Katniss's Victors' winnings each year."

"Oh," says Peeta, going red. "Right."

He doesn't remember them at all, I realize. The Capitol took that from him. When they stepped from the train, he only guessed them by their similarity to Rue. The Garlanders are total strangers to him.

Jarred from my own memories, I try to pick up the talking to help him, because I see the alarm beginning to work its way into his head again. Whenever he's suddenly confronted by a memory like this, it threatens to derail his focus.

Peeta makes it another thirty seconds before he loses the battle.

"I have to check on...Haymitch," he says to the table, and manages to leave by the kitchen door.

We don't say anything for a full minute after he's gone. I know he's in the wilds now, and I hate knowing that.

"What is that?" Roa asks me lowly.

"The Capitol," I say, feeling like I'm airing his dirty laundry. "They...well, you know. He still gets confused sometimes. But it's okay," I rush to add. "He's not dangerous for your kids to be around or anything." That's exactly what they need, to think they and their children moved in next to a maniac. But they'd have to see this eventually; they can't live here and avoid it.

I don't look up to see their faces, instead tracing a picture on the table with my fingers. My eyes brim with tears, for Peeta and for me and even for Haymitch, we broken things. We hunt and garden and raise geese, but we are so far from ever being okay.

We should have excused ourselves from the evening earlier, but we were caught up in the lull of pretending everything was alright.

I sniff and hate myself for it. Why can't I ever control my stupid crying? And now in front of people I hardly know.

Oh, my God, Rue. Your family is here and you aren't.

When a hand covers mine, I burst out in tears. It isn't supposed to be like this.

My chest begins to heave and I cover my face with both hands. Everything's tied together. Rue, so like Prim; Prim, gone, like so many others. Like Cinna. Finnick. They're all wrapped up into an enormous horrible lot of misery I can't seem to put behind me. Sometimes I still cannot believe they're all gone, like somebody tells me that two and two are five and I keep adding them up and don't understand how they never make four.

"I'm so sorry," I sob. For Rue. For Prim. I failed them both. "Oh, Rue."

What must the Garlanders be thinking? Surely that we're insane, that this is no place for their family. I hadn't wanted neighbors to invade our isolation and now I'm so afraid we've chased them away.

I begin to rise so I don't unload all my crazy onto their kitchen table. Evanda stops me by grabbing my wrist. I finally look at her and see tears streaking her face too.

"Sit down," she says firmly, but I shake my head, fearful of losing control.

Her face is strangely pitying. "Those monsters," she says.

Mrs Garlander stands and guides me back into the chair by my shoulders. Then she instructs Mr Garlander to make some tea and he complies, filling up a kettle and setting it on the stove. Evanda sits down by me, keeping her hand on mine and placing the other there too. We sit there for a few minutes and just cry, and I hear Mr Garlander too, trying to choke down the sobs.

By the time I've calmed down enough to speak, my face is a blotchy red mess and my eyes have to be bloodshot. I wipe at my tears with both sleeves. Evanda has pulled an embroidered handkerchief to pat at her face.

"It's alright to have a good cry," she says. "Every once in a while. It's only unhealthy if you cry all the time or never cry at all."

I laugh a little. She sounds like Dr Aurelius. "Right now I'm leaning a little more toward all the time than I'd like."

Roa comes with tea, and I take the saucer gratefully. He sits down next to Evanda and looks at me seriously, although his eyes are still red.

"If this is going to be," he begins, then he pauses. "We don't want to put a strain on you. Either of you. This isn't easy for anybody. But—we didn't know...his condition. Your states."

"It's not something they publicize," I say. Any coverage regarding Peeta and I is still sort of defined as 'damage control.'

"Do you want us to leave?"

"No!" I burst out without thinking. "Don't go. Not because of us. Please." Now that they're here, it would feel like my last link to Rue vanished if they left. "This won't happen again."

"This is not your fault," Evanda says forcefully.

"Yes it is," and my lip is trembling again and the words tumble out. "I didn't do _anything_ right. I see Rue, all the time, every night," and mentioning her brings them freshly to tears, "and my sister, and Finnick. And all the others. And the things they did to Peeta...I can't see how any of it isn't my fault."

I'm gripping my saucer too hard and release my hold before it cracks. Shame has rooted my gaze to the tea.

It was easier before, when all I had to worry about was surviving this day and tomorrow. Now I must live with all the yesterdays. I don't know when the guilt became so pronounced; it crept up on me.

"Katniss," says Roa, "the Capitol is to blame, for all of it. Don't shoulder any of their guilt."

I know that. I just can't believe it always.

"Why are you being so nice?" I ask harshly. "You have no reason to care. You should hate me." I want them to, I realize suddenly. So my self-abhorrence will not exist in a vacuum of reason.

"Does Peeta hate you?" asks Roa.

Confused by the question, I frown. "No..." _His hate was the Capitol's_ , I don't say.

"Because he understands where the blame lies. So do we. Hating you because you're the only thing we can target? That just traps us in the cycle it took a war to escape."

This all sounds rehearsed, like words that have run through their minds for ages. They've already been over this, through it and around. Ever since she died. They did not come to this point without a long, painful journey of grief.

I realize that their decision to come here was not on a whim. It was their own careful way of moving on and it must have taken every measure of their strength to come here.

"Welcome to the neighborhood," I say thickly.

Unbelievably, we start laughing. Things begin to seem better.

"Will he be okay?" asks Evanda, referring to Peeta's quick exit.

I know he'll get back to okay without me, but I don't want to appear callous in front of the Garlanders. I put down the tea. "He'll be fine. But I'll go check in on him."

"Tell him he's welcome anytime," Evanda says, taking my cup. "The kids are already crazy about him."

They're so nice, I think. Rue had to get her sweet nature from somewhere. Their sort of kindness is not the kind many families here were ever able to afford. They seem like people that are wasted on the wastleland that is District 12.

Peeta's house is dark. When I go around the back, I see him lying on his back in the grass of his backyard, staring up at the sky.

He turns his head as he hears me pad up to him. He is Peeta again. The return of focus has sharpened his eyes. This spell was a short one.

"So have I scared them off?" he says with forced casualness.

"No. Both of us couldn't. But they haven't met Haymitch's geese yet."

He laughs softly but I know he's still worried. I plop down next to him and look for stars my father used to point out to me. "They're not going anywhere, Peeta."

"That's good. Right?" He glances sideways at me.

"Right," I say. I mean it. I'll try to be neighborly.

We lie there for a time. Being around Peeta never comes with the obligation to talk. Our silences are companionable.

"I wonder why the Capitol cared about that memory," Peeta muses. He sounds more relaxed now. "I can remember arriving in and leaving District 11, but nothing in between. Nothing that was said."

He might wonder, but I don't. They had made a mutt of Peeta's mind. Leaving him a memory of the good thing he'd done, and my tearful words to Rue and Thresh's families, and the salute, might be enough to disrupt him—to make him doubt their lies—during a fit and stall his hand long enough to spare my life.

"I bet that was a surprise to Effie," he says, after I explain in greater detail what Roa had referred to.

"To everybody."

Soon I will recount the memory to him in full. Maybe I'll even get a hold of some of that forbidden footage from the square. I think it's being used in the war trials that are still carrying on all over Panem. Systematically, I will plug all the holes the Capitol left in his mind. This I resolve.

"Roa said earlier he can teach us to drive," comments Peeta.

My eyebrows shoot up. "Us?"

"After last time are you going to help Haymitch cart those damn geese in a wagon again?"

Good point. I could learn to drive. It would not be the greatest challenge we've ever faced. Somewhere in difficulty between learning a trap snare and invading the Capitol. I laugh, and it feels good.

We could sit in our houses and wallow in our grief. Some days I still want to. More days than I care to admit. It will be a long time before I can remember Prim just with the love and affection she deserves to be memorialized by, and not also the torrent of despair I still feel at her loss. I _miss_ her, so much, and I miss Rue, and I miss Thresh and the friend he could have been. It is all so breathtakingly unfair.

But I am beginning to understand that I cannot allow Snow this last victory, after he had his final bloody laugh. If anything you can rely on my innate competitiveness. Snow can't win.

So the next day, I go over to the Garlanders' home and help Roa unload more things and Peeta teases the kids mercilessly and Evanda stuffs us all with phenomenal cooking and finally, something feels right that hasn't been in a long time.

And I think how happy Rue would be if she could see us now.

**Author's Note:**

> originally posted on fanfiction.net.


End file.
